Thus does she scoff and spurn him. He drags her shrieking into the cavern, and at the same moment a party of Cherethites pass by, and are struck with astonishment at the 'curses, howling, horrid blasphemy,' which sound from the cave. They venture tremblingly in to ascertain the cause, and to succor any who may be in peril; but they find that a mightier deliverer than they has been before them. The foremost among them, says that he saw men ought never to relax their efforts-never to undervalue their noble calling. Overlooked they may be in the busy world, or beside the political idols of the day: but they have sources of cheerfulness and sustaining dignity within, which neither fickle fortune nor fickler party can take away. Their peace of mind is not laid up in vessels which a demagogue can shatter; their honors are not transitory as the term of office; their independent thoughts are not tortured to conformity by the machinery of party; their soul's vital aspiration is not staked on the issue of a canvass; old age is not to them the 'pining atrophy' of worn-out or disappointed statesmen. A living fount of mental gladness sparkles in their bosom. Solitude is not solitude to them: the shadow of the Past, the widespread ever-varying universe, are passing before them, and visions of the Future beckon them on. Sometimes, perhaps, amidst the glare and hurry of a great metropolis, struck with the results of her confederated minds, the man of letters may feel useless and alone. Let him reflect that all usefulness and all hap "One like the cherubim,Dreadfully glistering,-winged, and dazzling bright As lightning,—shooting from his bickering eyeballs Sparkles like arrows. All the cave's a-blaze With red effulgence!-Foaming on the ground, A howling, withering, ghast, demoniac shape, Curses, and gnashes, in death's agony." Thus is the evil spirit baffled, and faith and right-piness are a compromise, and that periodical eclipses are the price of habitual enthusiasm. Let him ponder and comeousness triumph. The drama is well and power-pare; but never mistake so widely as to link, even in wish, fully written, and is decidedly one of the best that his immortal part to the drag-rope of the world's affairs. has been written in this country. Still it has His pursuits refer to higher though less obvious things; to some faults. Especially do we think that the re-ideal beauty-abstract truth-universal interests-enduring bellion of Absalom, inasmuch as it is but remotely principles. They bring wealth to the soul, and transport to the mind; they drop seeds which shoot up a growth for connected with the main event which the play is perpetuity; they collect radiance for the torch which Faith intended to body forth, occupies too much space, waves to man, contending with shadows and billows on this and is made quite too prominent a part. The cha-world's shore, ere his eye catches that fixed and pure beam racter of Hadad is well drawn, and, with the ex- which burns alway on the battlements of his final home." ception perhaps of a portion of the second scene in the second Act, the dignity and proud bearing of the archangel ruined,' are well sustained. The character of the prophet, Nathan, is also well con- conformity thereto. He lived a life of quiet, stuceived, and presented in a pleasing light. The poet, however, has thrown around him less of awe and high respect, than we think should belong to his character. Tamar is skilfully portrayed, though with too little force and individuality for a genuine, high creation. But we have already protracted our remarks upon the works of Mr. Hillhouse to too great an extent. His other poems, The Judgment' and 'Sachem's Wood,' possess no claim to special nofice. The former, we think, lacks the power of high, creative imagination, requisite for the greatness and majesty of the subject-but there is nothing in it that can offend good taste, and this is no slight recommendation. Such was the ideal which Mr. Hillhouse formed to himself of the duties, the feelings, and the calling of a literary man; and his own practice was in dious retirement; and whatever he gave to the world, was the result of long continued thought and of arduous labor. In his published works, you will see nothing crude-nothing unpolished-nothing unworthy. Care, strict attention, and a highminded regard for their moral tendency, characterize his writings, rather than any shiningly eminent ability; but the reputation which these qualities have conferred upon him, is of higher and more enduring worth, than mere talent, unallied to them, can ever bestow. To those of the same calling who may come after him, he has left, in this respect, a worthy and a useful example. THE EARLY HUGUENOTS. We are precluded from remarking upon his Literary Addresses, farther than to say, that they are chastely and elegantly written, and embody just and noble views of the dignity of Learning, and Editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. the duties of literary and scientific men. We are SIR: I hand you a narrative account of some of the early tempted by its beauty to extract the following pas-Huguenots. It is copied from an original manuscript, in sage from the conclusion of his Address, upon the the possession of a worthy gentleman of Petersburg, him'Relations of Literature to a Republican Govern- self a descendant of the Huguenots, who is so obliging as ment.' After dilating upon the low esteem in which high literary effort is held, he proceeds: "True-hearted earnestness, concentration and perseve- The gentleman from whom this narrative was obtained, rance, would effect a change. The sincere cooperation of has in his possession a small sword handed down a sacred the rich would put causes in action that would soon per-relic from father to son, through several generations of a Wade and stimulate the whole community. But whatever Huguenot family. Tradition says that this sword has been present disappointment may await hopes like these, literary used in fourteen battles-nearly all of which occurred in to allow me the pleasure of communicating it to the public, which I desire to do through the pages of your periodical, should you find it convenient. France, during the civil wars of that kingdom. This sword | his obstinacy, till they had tortured him sufficiently was used by the grandfather of the present possessor, du- for his rebellion, when the cask was rolled into the ring the American Revolution, at the battle of Guilford, river and let to go adrift. Another mode was this North Carolina. In that action the scabbard was lost, but was replaced by another picked up on the field during the engagement. Petersburg, Va. Your obedient humble servant, C. C. Letter from JOHN DUPUY concerning the HUGUENOTS that settled in Virginia. Copied from the original, and never before published. BROTHER W [Benjamin Wathens] I received your friendly letter and the minutes of several associations, and thank you for them. I have taken notice of your request, to give you what information I could concerning the emigration of the French refugees, which I shall take great pleasure in doing, and recording the noble deeds of my ancestors, who left their country, not fearing the wrath of their king; "but endured as seeing him who is invisible." they had pincers to pluck out their finger-nails and their toe-nails, in order to make them say "I will turn;" and if the culprit continued obstinate, one of his arms was broken, and a pail of cold water was poured on it to increase the pain; and after one hour, the other arm was treated in like manner, and then the legs. After the lapse of four hours, a red hot iron was put to the breast, which gave the finishing stroke. Sometimes they used the iron boot to press the leg with screws, to compel them to say, "I will turn ;" and sometimes they would pardon them, and sometimes put them to death instantly, lest they should apostatize. Some were burned, and some drowned. Thus you see," the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” One day the priest came to my grandfather's house, with six men. He saw them a-coming; drew his sword; and told them to stand off. The My grandfather's name was Bartholomew Dupuy; he was born in France about the year 1650 priest told him that he must be taken;—if need be, or 1653; at eighteen years of age, enlisted in the he could get more men. My grandfather told him French army as a common soldier; served four-that he wanted only a little time to consider and teen years; and in that time, arose to the command take advice, and then he would surrender himself. of lieutenant, and was often sent out on the recruiting business, and had captain's pay. He fought fourteen battles in Flanders, besides skirmishes and duels, and the Lord preserved him through all. The priest said that his request was reasonable, and that he would grant it cheerfully. So they parted good friends. Immediately, my grandfather stepped across the street to a tailor's shop, and told Their manner of fighting was as follows:-once the tailor to make a suit of man's clothes for his a year they fought a pitched battle in Flanders, wife; to have them done in six hours, and keep with 100,000 men on each side, and fought three the secret. At midnight the clothes were done; days successively. The first day the armies fired she put them on, and passed for his servitor. They at one another the whole day, and at night slept on immediately started; my grandfather wearing his the ground. The second and third days passed in military dress, and girding on his sword, and passthe same way, until about eleven o'clock A. M. of ing for a captain of the army-he having often the third, when they laid down their guns, drew traversed the country in that garb on the recruiting their swords and ran to meet each other, and fought service. They travelled either fourteen or eigh hand to hand, till the armies were so thinned that teen days before they got out of France; were one or the other of them gave way. You may stopped every day to give an account of themknow that the carnage was exceeding great. selves, for there were guards at every crossingAt the expiration of fourteen years, my grand-place. But they escaped by his saying that he was father left the army and went home to pass a re- the king's officer. He had many narrow escapes, tired life. He had money enough to settle himself but at last got over the line, and sat down and sung comfortably; bought a vineyard for £50, and mar- the praises of God, in the fortieth psalm. Gerried a wife. In the year 1685, his most Christian many rejoiced to see their protestant brethren, who Majesty, Louis the fourteenth, revoked the edict of had escaped out of the jaws of the lion, and mourn Nantes, which afforded toleration to Protestants. ed that so many were massacred. It fired the His majesty would have no heretics in his do- souls of the Protestants; the ministers were burnminions; all his subjects must be Christians, and ing and shining lights; the praises of the Redeemer every person must be a Roman Catholic, or die. resounded through the land, as it did in Virginia, Inquisitors were appointed to go from house to in the time of the great revival. Thousands es house, to inquire whether the people would turn. caped by one stratagem or other; and thousands If they refused, they were immediately apprehend- were put to the most barbarous deaths. The refu ed; and if they continued impenitent, were forth-gees remained in Germany about fourteen years. with put to death. The manner of the death of By this time the king of England, in order to some of them was as follows:—a cask was armed strengthen his kingdom, made encouraging propo with sharp nails, driven through the staves, and sals for them to repair to England. Numbers ac the culprit, or rather the victim, was put in, and the cepted and went. After they had been there two cask headed and rolled to and fro, to punish him for years, the king of England issued a proclamation to all such as would go to settle the new country,, called Virginia, (after the Virgin Queen) that he would pay their passage, give them as much land as they might want, find them provision for one year and arms and ammunition to defend themselves from the Indians :—that they should enjoy what religion they pleased; take in what minister they pleased, and expel him when they pleased; that they should have a parish to themselves and not be under the control of the government, in respect to their parochial affairs; which privilege they enjoy to this day. All which the king faithfully performed. In the year 1700, great numbers of Huguenots landed in America; some on James river, and some on the Rappahannock. They selected for their place of residence, the Manikin Town, an old deserted village of the Manikin Indians, and settled on the bank of the river. Each settler took a small strip of land, running from the river to the foot of the hill. As well as I can recollect, the settlement extended about four miles along the river. There the Huguenots built a house for the worship of God, in the centre of the settlement. Here they had worship twice a day on the Sabbath; conducting the service after the manner of the Germans. Such sweet singing I have never heard since. They kept up worship in their families, three times a day. They fixed the bounds of their parish, and called it King-William Parish, after the name of their king. There was no settlement nearer than Richmond town, yet the Indians never hurt them; the Lord had said "touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm." There was no mill nearer than the mouth of Falling Creek, twenty miles distant; and they had no horses, but were obliged to carry their corn on their backs to the mill. When their children were grown up, they had not land enough; they wrote to the king to request a grant of more land. He ordered ten thousand acres more to be laid off and joined to their parish bounds. Thus I have given you a narrative of what my father told me, to the best of my recollection. If any thing in it will answer your purpose, I shall think myself well paid for my trouble. You must sort it as we do our frost-bitten corn. I have not corrected nor transcribed it. "The works of the Lord are great; sought out of all who take pleasure in them." Let children's children rehearse the great works of the Lord and the next age prolong his praise. I am, dear brother, Yours, JOHN DUPUY. THE ACORN. A POEM. BY MRS. SEBA SMITH. An Acorn fell from an old oak tree, And lay on the frosty ground"Oh, what shall the fate of the Acorn be?" Was whispered all around, By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, Like a flowret's bell when swung- For the woodland Fays come sweeping past Where the forest leaves were falling fast, They came to tell what its fate should be, For life is a holy mystery, Where'er it is concealed. They came with gifts that should life bestow, The dew and the living air The bane that should work it deadly woe Was found with the Fairies there. In the grey moss cup was the mildew brought, And the worm in a rose-leaf roll'd, And many things with destruction fraught, That its fate were quickly told. But it needed not; for a blessed fate Was the Acorn's doomed to be- To a little sprite was the task assigned When they through the forest sweep. I laughed outright at the small thing's toil, A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep, The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, Then softly the black earth turned aside, And up, where the last year's leaf was dried, With coiled stem, and a pale green hue, Its strength from the earth to bring. The young child pass'd with a careless tread, VOL. VII-43 The Autumn came, and it stood alone, And bowed as the wind pass'd byThe wind, that uttered its dirge-like moan In the old oak, sear and dryAnd the hollow branchos creak'd and sway'd, But they bent not to the blast, For the stout oak-tree where centuries play'd A school-boy beheld the lithe, young shoot, To sever the stalk from the spreading root, To peel the bark in curious rings, And many a notch and ray, Then idly cast away. His hand was staid, he knew not why- A pleading out from the deep, blue sky, It told of the care, that had lavish'd been Of the many things that had wrought a screen It told of the oak that once had bow'd As feeble a thing to see But now, when the storm was raging loud It wrestled mightily. There's a deeper thought on the school-boy's brow, A new love at his heart, And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow, Up grew the twig, with a vigor boid, In the shade of the parent tree, And the old oak knew that his doom was told Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore And the damp moss crept from the earthy floor Around the time-worn trunk and grey. The young oak grew, and proudly grew, On its glossy leaf, where the flickering light And the wild-bird came to its airy height In acorn time came the truant boy With a wild and eager look, And he marked the tree with a wondering joy, He look'd where the moss on the north side grew, The solemn shadow the huge tree threw And vague-like fears the boy surround, So growing up from the darksome ground, Like a giant mystery. His heart beats quick to the squirrel's tread And he lifts not up his awe-struck head In its vigor and its pride; A monarch owned in the solemn wood, No more in the wintry blast to bow, Or rock in the Summer breeze, And a thousand years it firmly grew, It grew where the rocks were bursting out Where the far-off sound of the restless deep And the white foam dash'd to the rocky steep; Then its huge limbs creak'd in the midnight air, The bleaching bones of the sea-bird's prey The light boat often swung, And the stout ship, saved from the ocean grave, Change came to the mighty things of earth- Of the generations, that had birth, O Death! where, where were they? Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood, Nor dream'd it of decay, Though a thousand times in the Autumn wood Its leaves on the pale earth lay. A sound comes down on the forest trees, It floats far off on the Summer breeze, Lo! the monarch tree no more shall stand Like a watch-tower of the main The strokes fall thick from the woodman's hand, And it falling shakes the plain. The stout live oak-'twas a worthy tree, And the builder mark'd it out; Careering the rolling deep, Her way she will proudly keep. And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they drank She sits on the stocks, the skeleton ship, Looks round with strange amaze, With graceful waist, and carvings brave While round go the cheerings three. Where it plunged in foam and spray; Thou wert nobly reared, O heart of oak! Where the surging wave o'er the rough rock broke, And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice, With the wind through spar and shroud, To hear a sound like the forest voice, When the blast was raging loud! With snow-white sail, and streamers gay, She sits like an ocean sprite, Careering on in her trackless way In sunshine or dark midnightHer course is laid with fearless skill, For brave hearts man the helm- On, on she goes, where the icebergs roll, From icy tower and dome, On the Indian sea was her shadow cast, And her pendent shroud and towering mast The idle canvass slowly swung As the spicy breeze went by, O gallant ship, thou did'st bear with thee And weeping eyes look'd out to see The anxious wife her babes would fold, The petral wheel'd in its stormy flight- Helmless, bent on before the gale, She ploughs the deep-trough'd waveA gurgling sound-a frenzied wail And the ship hath found a grave. And thus is the fate of the Acorn told,. That fell from the old oak tree, And the woodland Fays in the frosty mould Preserved for its destiny. New York City. THE QUAKERESS: A TALE IN ELEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER X. Now this is death-'tis more, 'tis infamy. Hark! Is that his voice? Is it not the wind? Rebecca had passed through the pageantry of that day without realizing the full import of all she had seen and heard. She had not fully realized that, what she witnessed in this august parade of justice, and in these formal solemnities, was a cruel conspiracy against her character and life. There is a principle of our nature which prepares us for great events and sudden exigences. Something of this is seen even in the condemned criminal, as he stands under the gibbet, with the fatal cord about his neck, ready to be launched into eternity. The pomp, display, solemn preparation and procession, and more than all, the sight of numerous spectators, divert his mind and rob even such a death as his of half its terrors. The poor felon now almost believes himself a hero. We see and feel the force of this principle in the occurrence of dreadful accidents, and in the report of painful tidings concerning those we most dearly love. The very magnitude of such awful occurrences blunts our mind's perception, and renders our grief less poignant, because of our incapacity to conceive the full import of the evil. To realize, at once, the extent of our afflictions, might entirely prostrate our powers of mind and body, and perhaps destroy our lives. So also, when the truth unfolds to our apprehension, and we come to view, in detail, the most aggravating features of our misfortunes, we find a wise provision in our natures for the alleviation of our sufferings. The almost imperceptible degrees by which we are brought to realize our true condition, seem to fit our minds gradually for the worst, and thus to lessen somewhat the poignancy of our distress. In our last chapter, we endeavored to describe the terror and anguish of the unfortunate Quakeress at her trial. Borne, in a state of insensibility, from the church back again to her place of confinement, she had there been left to recover her recollections as she best might. But it was a long time after the shades of night had settled over the restored quietness of the village, before she did recover the full possession of her faculties. Here, in her lone prison chamber, sat the solitary girl. Supported by the same low pallet, on which she had witnessed the death of Old Meg, she seemed the personation of grief and despair. Here, in her first moments of recollection, a thousand thoughts crowded thick and fast upon her. The intensity of her feelings, and the suddenness of her recovery, produced a pressure upon her senses, which, for an instant, seemed to quicken her memory; and the past, like the recollected fragments of an old dream, was brought rapidly before her mind. It was a moment when all the past, all the pains, pleasures, fears of the past-when the progress and whole tenor of her life was condensed into one vivid present. She thought of her childhood; of the time when she was free to roam wherever she willed, skipping over rock and rill, and amid bush and brake, in the unrestrained enjoyment of all her innocent pastimes. She thought of her dear parents and beloved people, their wrongs and persecutions, and of her own share in bringing misfortunes upon her peaceful kindred. Even in this darkest hour, she cherished their memory. Then, she thought of a later period-of herself, as a grown-up woman-of her care and |